The Spy Who Came for Christmas Page 4

On the ground in front of him, the footprints were becoming less frequent, branching off to warm-looking homes behind fences and walls. Soon, his would be the only footprints remaining. He prayed that the snow would fill them before his hunters figured out which direction he’d taken.

  As the baby squirmed under his parka, he shivered and thought, I risked my life for you. I could have walked away and disappeared. God knows, I was ready. I’ve been through more than anyone could imagine. I found terrorist threats no one would have dreamed of.

  But to maintain my cover, I did things no one should have been forced to do.

  He thought of the clerk he’d pistol-whipped while robbing an all-night convenience store in Brooklyn. His purpose had been to demonstrate his ferocity to Andrei, who—he knew—had followed him and was watching from across the street.

  The clerk had spent two weeks in a hospital.

  He thought of the restaurant owner whose front teeth he’d pulled out with pliers, when the Pakhan had wanted the man punished for failing to make a loan payment. Somehow, the man’s screams hadn’t prevented Kagan from hearing the clatter of the teeth when he’d dropped them to the floor.

  He thought of the legs he’d broken and the homes he’d burned, the cars whose brakes he’d caused to fail and the water faucets he’d opened in the middle of the night, flooding businesses whose owners had refused to pay protection money. Again and again, he’d been compelled to prove himself to the Pakhan, to be increasingly brutal in order to gain admission to the inner circle and search for connections between Middle Eastern terrorists and the Russian mob.

  He recalled how adamantly his mission controllers had refused to pull him out. There was always something bigger, something more dangerous that they needed him to pursue. They seemed determined to involve him in the mission forever, no matter how deeply he descended into hell.

  Not any longer, Kagan mentally told the baby. It’s finished. I ended it because of you. Did I blow my cover because I wanted out or because you’re worth the price?

  His weariness was such that, when the baby twisted against him, he almost believed it was assuring him that he’d done the right thing.

  Lord help me, I hope so, he thought.

  In the blue haze of the snowfall, he peered down and noticed that there was only one set of footprints ahead of him now.

  Worse, they came in his direction.

  And they were half full.

  My tracks’ll be obvious, he thought, feeling a deeper chill.

  Suddenly, his dizziness from blood loss threw him off balance. Feeling the baby kick under his parka, he held it firmly with his good arm and jerked out his injured one to balance himself. He groaned from the pain but managed not to fall.

  Rapid clouds of frosted breath came from his mouth. The cold mountain air made his tongue dry. He moved forward again, parallel to the footprints, hoping to make it appear that someone had left home to look at the decorations on Canyon Road and had recently come back, that the two sets of prints belonged to the same person, leaving and returning.

  Still dizzy, he reached a gate on his left. Beyond it, the faint footprints came from the side of a one-story adobe house. Its support beams projected from the flat roof in the manner of Native America pueblos. A covered porch stretched from one side of the house to the other. But they don’t call it a porch here, a hotel clerk had told him. It’s called a—

  Stop losing focus! Kagan thought in dismay. His sense of being trapped in a snow globe had become so strong that it seemed as if the rest of the neighborhood no longer existed, that this house was the only place in the world. As he stared, it began to resemble a holiday postcard. A pine-bough wreath was on the front door. A row of colored lights hung above it. To the right, a window revealed a dark living room illuminated by a fire in a hearth and lights on a Christmas tree. He smelled the peppery fragrance of piñon smoke coming from the chimney.

  The only house in the world? Don’t I wish, he thought.

  The baby moved under his parka, and Kagan wondered if it sensed how exhausted he was, that he would soon collapse, that this house was their only chance. He stepped closer to the upright cedar limbs of a coyote fence, straining to see if there was any movement in the shadows beyond the main window.

  To the left, a light glowed behind another window, this one small. Kagan saw a suggestion of cupboards and concluded that the light was in the kitchen, but he still didn’t notice any activity. The place seemed deserted.

  Maybe the tracks belong to someone who lives here alone, Kagan thought. Maybe he or she went for a walk and turned the kitchen light on to make it appear that the house is occupied.

  But misgivings made Kagan frown. Would someone have gone out and left a fire in the hearth? It’s not something I’d do, he decided. No, I can’t assume the house is deserted.

  He directed his weary gaze farther to the left, where he saw a snow-obscured shed and a garage. I can try to hide there, he thought. Maybe it’ll appear as if the tracks belong to someone who returned to the side door of the house. He glanced behind him, worried that his hunters would suddenly appear, phantoms racing through the snowfall, guns raised, overwhelming him.

  Continuing to use his good arm to secure the baby under his parka, he reached his wounded one toward the gate’s metal bolt. He bit his lip in a useless effort to distract himself from the pain. Then he tugged the bolt to the side and pushed the gate open.

  * * * * *

  “PAUL, YOU’LL SPEND a month in a Russian prison in Omsk. That’s in Siberia. The official records will indicate that you were a prisoner there for thirteen years. Russian prisons are notoriously overcrowded. The inmates seldom get a chance to mingle. It won’t be suspicious if inquiries are made and none of the prisoners remembers how long you were really there.

  “We’ll put Russian prison tattoos on your chest. Barbed wire with thirteen prongs indicates the number of years you supposedly were in prison. A cat and a spider within a web indicate that you’re a thief. A candlestick indicates that you’re dangerous, that you’re not afraid to put out someone’s light. We’ll give you a blood thinner before you’re tattooed. The increased bleeding will make the tattoos look old and faded.

  “We have a source who’ll teach you details of Omsk at the time you supposedly were taken off the streets. Your story is that you’re an orphan born there, a street kid who moved around a lot, running from the authorities until they put you in prison. Hard to disprove. A month in that prison ought to be enough for you to be able to answer questions about details only someone who served time there could know.

  “After that, we’ve arranged for you to escape and take a black market route out of Russia. You’ll make the traditional criminal pilgrimage to Brighton Beach, where you’ll go through the inevitable rites of passage to be accepted.

  “Paul, you’ve worked undercover before. The drill remains the same. The big difference is that this time you’ll be doing it longer.”

  “And that the people I’m trying to fool are more dangerous. Exactly how much longer is the assignment?”

  “We don’t know. The rumors we’re picking up indicate that something big is set to happen between the Russian mob and Al Qaeda in the next twelve months. Maybe it’s a suitcase bomb the mob took from one of those nuclear bases that were left unguarded when the Soviet Union collapsed. There’s a strong chance you’ll prevent an attack much worse than what happened on 9/11.”

  * * * * *

  ANDREI’S RIGHT HAND felt cold. Its thin leather glove didn’t provide enough insulation against the grip of his pistol. He pulled his left hand from his ski-jacket pocket, switched the Glock over to it, and shoved his right hand into the jacket, flexing his fingers, warming them.

  In the dim illumination from snow-hazed lights, he and his companions followed prints in the snow. They came to a wall.

  Andrei aimed to the right, toward a fence and the windowless side of a house. There wasn’t any indication that someone had gone in that direction. He swun
g to the left toward a walkway between two rows of small buildings. A half-dozen sets of footprints led toward entrances. He hurried along, seeing the prints become fewer and fewer until only one set continued past the buildings.

  I’ve almost got you, Andrei thought.

  Abruptly, he came to another wall.

  Inexplicably, the footprints didn’t turn around. They just ended. Andrei stared at them, mystified. He stepped closer to the wall. It was made of upright boards that looked to be about ten feet high.

  Pyotyr, you couldn’t have climbed them, not with one arm wounded, not holding the baby under your coat. So where the hell

  did you go?

  Baffled, Andrei stepped even closer and touched the surface. He exhaled quickly when a board fell away, revealing a low gap that was wide enough for a man to crawl through.

  Clever. Are you waiting on the other side, ready to shoot us as we squirm into sight?

  The Pakhan’s voice blurted from the earbud under Andrei’s cap. “Have you found the package? Our clients will be here any moment! Even if I give back the money, they’ll demand someone be punished for failing to deliver what they need. It won’t be me! They’ll hunt you! I’ll help them!”

  Crouching, studying the gap in the wall, Andrei murmured to the microphone on his ski jacket. “We’re close,” he lied.

  “You see Pyotyr?”

  “It’s too risky to talk. He’ll hear me.”

  “You govnosos, get the package!”

  Andrei felt the insult as he would a slap.

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “I’ll do whatever I want, you incompetent kachok.”

  Andrei struggled to keep his fury from distracting him. Chest heaving, he stared toward the gap in the wall. He shifted to the right and left, using various angles to assess the area beyond. The footprints seemed to go straight ahead. But that didn’t prove anything, Andrei knew. Pyotyr might have veered to the side and doubled back to ambush them as they crawled through.

  We’re wasting time. My friend, I won’t let you make this even worse for me!

  He reached under his ski jacket and pulled the radio transmitter from his belt. It was black plastic, the size of a deck of cards. He switched the dial to the frequency the team had used earlier and listened for some indication of what Pyotyr might be doing. What he heard was deep, fast, labored breathing, the sound of someone on the move.

  Then you’re not waiting on the other side, Andrei thought. You made us suspect a trap—to make us stop while you kept going!

  Outraged, he squirmed through the gap.

  As Mikhail and Yakov followed and spread out, Andrei examined his surroundings, keeping his gun ready. He was in a courtyard, with colorfully lit adobe houses on each side. Bending to examine the footprints, he noted that their stride wasn’t as long. A hint of blood trailed next to them.

  Pyotyr, we’ve almost got you.

  He spoke into the microphone. “It doesn’t need to be like this, my friend. Return the package. We’ll forgive you.”

  Andrei’s earbud was silent.

  Then Pyotyr surprised him, replying, “Say it again, this time with conviction.”

  “Ah,” Andrei said to the microphone, all the while following the footprints. “So you’re not too injured to be able to speak. It’s good to hear your voice.”

  “I bet,” Pyotyr said, breathing hard.

  “I meant what I told you. Return what you stole. We’ll pretend this never happened. We’ll even get you medical attention.”

  “And what about Viktor?” Pyotyr asked. “I killed him. You’re willing to forget that?”

  “He was new. I hardly spent any time with him.”

  “Your loyalty’s touching.”

  “You have the jaitsa to talk to me about loyalty?”

  “I made you look bad in front of the Pakhan. I apologize.”

  “Prove it. Return the package.”

  Pyotyr didn’t answer. All Andrei heard was the sound of his forced breathing.

  “You know we’ll catch you,” Andrei said.

  “You can try.”

  “Listen to reason. You’re losing strength. There’s only one way this can end. Save yourself more pain. Surrender the child.”

  “And everything will be like it was before?”

  “I’ll let you go. You have my word.”

  “Of course.” Pyotyr’s labored breathing indicated that he kept walking.

  “Damn it, tell me why the child is so important to you?” Andrei demanded. “If you’re a spy, why would you blow your cover because of this?”

  “It’s Christmas Eve. I guess I got carried away by the holiday spirit.”

  “Is being sentimental worth your life?”

  “Is chasing me worth yours?”

  “I always liked your attitude, but given the way you sound, I doubt this’ll be much of a contest.”

  Abruptly, Andrei came to a spot where the footprints joined a number of others in a lane that went to the right and left.

  “Someone’s coming,” Yakov warned.

  On the right, two couples emerged from the snowfall, prompting Andrei and his companions to tuck their weapons into their coats.

  “No, you’re wrong. Chevy Chase made the funniest Christmas movie,” one of the approaching men insisted to his companions. “National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation.”

  “Is that the one where Chevy brings home a Christmas tree with a squirrel in it?”

  “Yeah, and his dog drinks the water in the tree’s dish. The tree gets so dry it bursts into flames.”

  “And burns the squirrel?” a woman objected. “You think that’s funny?”

  “No, it jumps on Chevy’s back,” the second man replied. “It’s really just this cheesy stuffed squirrel that a prop guy sewed to his sweater, but his family screams and runs away when they see it on him. Then Chevy screams and runs, not realizing that the squirrel’s on his back. And . . . ”

  Voices dwindling, the couples continued down the lane. Soon, their figures were obscured again by the falling snow.

  Andrei and his companions removed their pistols from their coats.

  “Pyotyr?” Andrei said into his microphone.

  All he heard was forced breathing.

  “We can solve this problem,” Andrei assured him. “You just need to be reasonable.”

  Pyotyr refused to answer.

  “Very well. I’ll see you soon, my friend,” Andrei said.

  He switched the transmitter back to the frequency the team was now using. Then he put the unit under his ski jacket and rehooked it to his belt.

  Mikhail pointed toward the ground.

  “We need to hurry. All these tracks will soon be filled with snow.”

  Andrei glanced to the left, where this new lane led back toward Canyon Road.

  “He might have rejoined the crowd,” Yakov said.

  “Possibly,” Andrei agreed. “But he seems to be losing more blood. He might be afraid that someone will notice and cause a commotion that will tell us where he went. Would he risk attracting our attention instead of going to ground somewhere?”

  Debating the possibilities, Andrei peered to the right, away from Canyon Road. There were fewer footprints headed in that direction.

  “Go left. Check the crowd,” he told Mikhail and Yakov. “I’ll go this way.”

  * * * * *

  KAGAN STEPPED through the open gate and studied the area in front of the house. As the snowflakes thickened, he saw the outline of a bench and an evergreen shrub on the right. Two leafless trees stood to his left. Their white trunks were difficult to distinguish in the snowfall. He stared at the main window but still didn’t see any movement except for the flicker from logs in the fireplace.

  At once, his vision wavered, almost in imitation of the dimly glimpsed flames.

  It’s just the snow blurring my eyes, he thought.

  His legs felt frozen, as did his chest where the zipper on his parka was halfway down, providing ai
r for the baby.

  Hurry, he thought. He turned to close the gate and secure the metal bolt, ignoring a twinge of pain in his wound. Whence redirected his attention toward the house, his vision again wavered.

  Under his parka, the baby moved. Aware that he needed to find shelter soon, he took one step, then another. The flakes came faster, renewing the hope that his tracks would soon be filled.

  I have a good chance of getting this trick to work, he thought. Still, he couldn’t help imagining the emotions of the man to whom he’d spoken just now, the man he’d fooled into believing they were friends, the man who—even if he failed tonight—would never stop hunting him.

  Kagan moved nearer to the house, but something he saw in the snow to the left of the front door made him worry that his vision had definitely been compromised.

  He was sure he saw a plant. It had a dense cluster of dark leaves. The contrast against the snow was the reason he noticed it. But it seemed impossible. How could a plant grow in this weather? Moreover, it seemed to have flowers, a half-dozen large ones, the white of which was as difficult to distinguish as the trunks of the aspen trees.

  And yet he was sure he saw their blur.

  Flowers in winter? I’m hallucinating, Kagan thought. Some

  kind of snow mirage.

  Or maybe the blood loss is making me see things.

  Unsteady, he followed the half-filled prints toward the side of the house. Keep going, he thought. I’m almost there. If I can get into the shed or the garage, I can rest for a while. Catch my breath. Try to stop the bleeding.

  He put one boot in front of the other.

  Maybe there’ll be a tarpaulin or an old blanket I can crawl under, he hoped. Try to get warm. Try to warm both of us, he silently promised the baby. He felt more responsible for the child than he’d ever felt for anyone else in the world. Maybe Could wrap you up and put you someplace safe in a corner. That would give me a chance to try to protect us.

  But whatever you do, he mentally pleaded, just don’t cry. I’m sure you’re hungry. I’ll try to find you something to eat. I don’t know how, but I’ll do my best. Please don’t cry. You’ve been good so far. The greatest. There’s only one way you can be better. For God’s sake, please don’t cry.